


Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi

by brevitas



Series: Leader of the Muses [12]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Greek Gods AU, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:52:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras decides that if Grantaire won't remember he'll just make him fall in love all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi

Jehan leaves Grantaire on the balcony and excuses himself with what he's sure is a flimsy lie (something about tomatoes and damn those fellows are quick to grow and look at the time)--but apparently Grantaire has yet to remember the fact that his best friend is completely unable to lie and merely nods when he gets up to go.

He returns to his garden and finds Enjolras easily, sitting amongst some of Jehan's prized rosebushes and studying the multi-colored blossoms. He looks up when Jehan enters and, flushed and excited, can immediately tell that something has changed.

"What is it?" He asks as he stands, and Jehan flounces to him, takes one of his hands and squeezes it.

"He remembers writing my story," he gushes. "He didn't remember that he was writing it for me, per say, and nor could he recall who he was competing with but he _did_ remember it."

Enjolras smiles and then says decisively, "I'm going to court him."

Jehan blinks up at him and Enjolras nods—he’s made up his mind already, had an inkling of it last night but finally agreed to it this morning. "I'll just go back to the beginning with him; start us over completely. He'll agree to one date, at least, whether he remembers me or not." Enjolras is confident in this; Grantaire already feels bad about forgetting him, and if Enjolras needs pity to get his foot in the door he's more than happy to utilize that.

“Good luck,” Jehan tells him with a smile, and helpfully informs him that Grantaire should still be on the patio. Enjolras thanks him and heads to the named patio, where Grantaire is still present but much to Enjolras' displeasure, no longer alone.

A nymph giggles over something he's said, standing close enough that when Grantaire moves his arm he brushes her breasts. She’s flushed and pretty and apparently an Anthousai nymph, as her hair is thick and purple and she smells of hyacinth flowers.

Enjolras hates her on sight.

He figures she’s here to commend Zeus on his loveliness, and no doubt to flirt shamelessly with him, as nymphs are wont to do (almost as bad as satyrs, he thinks). She was probably on her way out when she caught sight of Grantaire and stepped out here to speak with him, or more than likely try to sleep with him. Grantaire had been infamous among the nymphs and satyrs for taking any partner who wanted him centuries ago, but he’d gotten better of the years and had recently nearly been chaste (Enjolras only thinks then that perhaps he was doing it for him, striving to prove to his Apollo that he could be loyal to him if only given the chance. Enjolras feels sick).

“Grantaire,” he calls and he turns, smiles at him. The nymph casts Enjolras a glower that only encourages him to step between them, forcefully crowding the woman until she steps back. Grantaire arches an eyebrow at him but makes no comment on the less-than-subtle interruption.

“Do you want something?” Grantaire asks, slouching against the railing and smoking. Enjolras frowns at the cigarette but grudgingly accepts that he needs to pick his battles and this is not one of them.

“Yes,” he says, folds his arms across his chest. The nymph hovers behind him, peering around his shoulder at Grantaire (who is all but ignoring her, his blue eyes intent on Enjolras’). “I wished to know if you wanted to have dinner with me.” Grantaire blinks at him and he adds tactfully, “As in a date.”

The nymph harrumphs but stands her ground and Grantaire looks back at her, flicks his gaze back to Enjolras. “Okay,” he says, and she groans and vanishes (apparently she too knows a lost cause when she sees one). Grantaire chuckles, exhales smoke out his nose. “I think you scared her off.”

Enjolras frowns but allows a small smile when he realizes that Grantaire is teasing him, and says, “Well I couldn’t have her thieving you away before I got a chance myself.”

Grantaire laughs. Enjolras watches him, notices everything that is familiar to him—the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he’s amused, how blue his irises seem when he’s flushed with good feelings and warmth. It’s been a long time since Enjolras has seen him like this and he revels in it, thinks again that Grantaire has forgotten he’s an alcoholic, has forgotten what drove him to the bottle in the first place. If he treads lightly here, he thinks, they could really be something.

“I’ll come get you at eight,” he says. Grantaire licks his lips and takes a drag while he nods.

“Sure, Enjolras. See you then.”

+++++

Enjolras is painfully reminded how terrible of a cook he is when he steps into the kitchen and Combeferre, where he’s seated at the table reading a European newspaper, says without looking up, “If you even touch that stove I’m kicking you out.”

Enjolras groans and crosses to his friend, taking the seat beside him. “I don’t know how to cook,” he bemoans, and Combeferre looks incredulously at him over his glasses.

“I know,” he says patiently. “We all know. You have about as much skill with a stovetop as a mentally impaired chimpanzee.”

The worst part is that the description is rather accurate, and both of them know it. The last time Enjolras tried to cook something it was bacon, and they’d had to open all of Olympus’ windows to air out the acrid smoke. The stench had clung to the walls for days afterward, and eventually they’d agreed to repaint the kitchen in hopes of covering it up (it worked, but they’d been so desperate they’d allowed Jehan to pick the color and it was now a rather alarming orange).

“I told Grantaire I wanted to take him to dinner,” he explains, and Combeferre’s eyebrow inches higher. “But I’m aware that if we go to Earth he’ll get distracted by other things. I figured it wouldn’t be too terribly hard to whip something up.”

Combeferre snorts and sets his newspaper down. “Enjolras, you are hopeless at cooking. If you want to make dinner, get a personal chef.”

Enjolras is tempted to flip him off but Combeferre only grins and pats his hand. “I’ll cook for you,” he declares, scooting his chair back and standing. “Tell me what you want me to make.”

He ends up Googling recipes on his phone because he doesn’t spend enough time around cookbooks to know any, and decides on a course he knows Grantaire will appreciate (even if he doesn’t remember his favorites himself): a beef roast steeped in cream of mushroom soup and served alongside mashed potatoes dusted with cheese, complemented with a loaf of French bread and asparagus. It’s elegant without being overwhelming, and Enjolras is satisfied with the decision(Combeferre makes a face when Enjolras suggests a beef roast, and doesn’t tell him that normally that would take several hours; he encourages the slow cooker to become a fast cooker instead, and notifies him that it will be done in two hours).

“Perfect,” Enjolras tells him, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Thank you, Combeferre. Your help is going to make this night perfect.”

+++++

It’s seven thirty and Enjolras has no idea what to wear.

There are clothes strewn all over his room now, and he’s uncovered items he didn’t even know he owned (to be fair, everyone wore strange things in the most recent 80’s). He’s got pairs of shoes stacked alongside his far wall and just when he thinks he finds a pants/shoes combo that he can live with he’s out of luck with shirts. For Enjolras, who has never cared about fashion in his life, who wears whatever he happens to find comfortable, who has so many clothes only because the other gods always buy him things, this agitation is weird.

Weird, but apparently unavoidable, as he throws down another button-up when he decrees that the lavender doesn’t mesh quite like he’d like with the denim.

“Christ,” he says, and is just getting ready to call his sister when Eponine pokes her head in the door.

“Hey,” she greets and he starts, turns to face her. “You having a fashion crisis in here or something? All that banging around is making me nervous.”

“Normally I would tell you to quit listening in on what I’m doing but I really need your help.” She grins and walks all the way in and he gestures forlornly at the piles scattered across his floor. “I’m trying to find something to wear.”

Eponine thinks she’s lived for this moment her entire life. She’s grinning so broadly she’s surprised it doesn’t hurt, and she claps her hands together as she declares, “Sit down. I’ll find you something.”

It takes her ten minutes to pick out an outfit that Enjolras swears he’d checked out before, but it looks genteel now. He studies himself in the mirror and shakes his head, bewildered. “I swear, you are the goddess of clothing,” he says and she laughs, unbuttons the top of the shirt with a frisky grin and pats him on the shoulder.

“You’re welcome,” she says, steering him towards the door. “I’ll clean up in here. Go get him, tiger.”

+++++

Enjolras is officially five minutes early, after dawdling in the bathroom so he didn’t look too eager and messing around with his hair (which he’s also never paid attention too). Enjolras is still edgy, and his stomach feels like it’s in knots, but he’s determined to make this night special and that is what it’s going to be.

(He’s so high-strung because he’s never done this before, but that doesn’t consciously occur to him tonight. The first time Grantaire had fallen in love with him he’d done it independently, completely without Enjolras’ notice—this time Enjolras is the one in love, and he’s desperate for Grantaire to feel the same. The irony of the situation will be funny many years later, when he thinks back on this night and laughs.)

He straightens his button-up one final time and knocks on Grantaire’s door--from within there’s a loud crash, followed by a louder, “Fuck!” He frowns, considers trying the doorknob, but before he can decide it’s yanked open.

Grantaire is… messy. For a moment Enjolras is taken aback, because he’d expected Grantaire to at least wear something decent (again, it should have occurred to him that this Grantaire doesn’t remember Enjolras, doesn’t know that old Grantaire would have bought a suit edged with actual gold for an opportunity like this).

“Sorry,” he says, sliding out of his room with a grin. “I was trying to paint.”

“I can see that,” Enjolras says dryly, because Grantaire looks like a canvas himself. Jehan has a habit of scrawling stanzas on his forearms when he runs out of paper and it appears that Grantaire has adopted the custom himself--his left arm looks like an artist’s palette, splotched with different colors that he's mixed. He’s wearing a t-shirt Enjolras has never seen before and jeans that are big enough that they slide low on his hips (and that’s just unfair).

"So are you ready to go?" He asks and Grantaire takes a longer look at Enjolras' pristine outfit, pursing his mouth.

"Well, I _thought_ I was." He edges back towards his door. "Give me just one second."

Enjolras nods and waits patiently in the hallway as Grantaire changes, though when he resurfaces it is not the grand emergence Enjolras had been expecting. He's put on actual pants (defined as such that they have no holes nor large swathes of paint) and these are purposefully low-riders, confirmed when he reaches up to straighten his hair and the shirt rucks up enough for Enjolras to see dark skin and hipbones and the barest freckling of hair from below his belly button to his waistband.

Enjolras clears his throat and looks staunchly at Grantaire's face instead, and then realizes that the artist is smirking. He has little hope that he'd overlooked the staring. "Are you ready to go now?"

"Sure," Grantaire answers with a small laugh. "Lead the way."

When they reach the kitchen Enjolras decides that Combeferre deserves a medal, because he's set the table, brought the food out, and vanished. Grantaire whistles (completely oblivious to the fact that Enjolras would never be capable of doing this himself) and says, "This looks nice."

Enjolras grins and gestures him to sit. "Let's eat."

**Author's Note:**

> UGH sorry this is so mundane I just really wanted some Enjolras and this happened? the next part will be coming like legit asap, so please no one shank me (sometimes Enjolras just takes me over and all I want to write is him doing normal, boring shit, and sometimes I then proceed to post that shit online)
> 
> btw an Anthousai nymph is a flower nymph, who were described as having "hair like hyacinths", which I obviously took my own special way
> 
> the title means, "Today for me, tomorrow for you"
> 
> tumblr is idfaciendumest!
> 
> kisses to all you beautiful people


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